


Head On Collision

by Azai



Series: A New Found Glory [1]
Category: Yu-Gi-Oh!
Genre: Adventure, Capsule Monsters Adaptation, Empathic Reader, Friendship, Gen, Post-Battle City Arc, Reader-Insert, first fic in this fandom please be kind, reader and Malik are bros, reader needs friends but is also so sick of everyone's shit, sporadic updates probably
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-29
Updated: 2016-09-29
Packaged: 2018-08-18 13:25:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8163560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azai/pseuds/Azai
Summary: After sixteen years of suffering gruesome nightmares and the side effects of your bizarre psychic abilities, you find your reclusive life turned upside down when you transfer to Domino High School. Immediately adopted by a group of eccentric gamers, your presence heralds a great upheaval in the dynamic of their friendship... especially when one of your new friends wins a group holiday and insists on you coming along.But what should have been a fun weekend in Okinawa turns dangerous when your plane crashes on a mysterious island, separating your group. And if you ever want to find your new friends and return to civilisation, you must win your way through a deadly game of monsters, all while trying to figure out why the hell no one thought to tell you about all this Ancient Egyptian magic stuff oh my god.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first time I'm posting one of these, please be gentle with me :S

You’ve only been in Domino for two days when the dreams start back up. Though the contents are hazy at best, you startle awake every morning with the echoes of screams and laughter in your ears and the phantom slick slide of blood on gold beneath your trembling fingers. The darkness at the edges of your vision has teeth and claws, and you are not safe. You have never been safe.

You don’t tell your mother. You remember the doctors she sent you to, the pills and psychologists and how hunched your father’s back looked the day he finally gave up and left you.

You’d give anything to be normal, but at the moment you’ll settle for not having to leave again.

* * *

You’re woken up by the sound of your front door slamming and groan, rolling onto your back. Your bed is warm and comfortable, but you can taste iron on your tongue and you know you’ve had all the rest you can. With a huff, you haul your tired body up and across the hall into the bathroom, where you wake yourself with a cold shower.

It is only when you brush your teeth both before and after your shower and swill your mouth out three times that the sensation of crunching sand fades.

Your mother is sat at the small kitchen table when you emerge from your bedroom the second time, dressed only in clean underwear and a dressing gown. Her perfectly manicured fingernails are tapping a staccato rhythm on the parcel on her lap; you know before she says anything that within the tape and brown paper is your new school uniform.

During the three and a half weeks you’ve been in this city, you’ve actually left your apartment exactly twice for a reason other than the hunt for sustenance at the nearest market. When you do go outside, you wear thick gloves and big jackets with hoods you can hide your face in. Honestly, you thought she’d have cracked long before now. She usually loses it and enrols you after four or five days.

She doesn’t believe in things she can’t see. She doesn’t understand why it’s so hard for you to be like the other kids. She never has.

She tolerates you. For now, you think as you take the parcel from her, that’s enough.

“Be on time for your classes,” she instructs you awkwardly. “Don’t be rude to your teachers. Don’t get in any fights. And for pity’s sake don’t kiss anyone.”

You mumble your consent while trying hard not to roll your eyes. Ever since she watched that American ‘documentary’ about demonic possession, she’s been convinced that you’ll suck out the soul of anyone who meets lips with you. That, or she thinks you’re Rogue from X-Men. You’re not completely sure. The one time you brought it up, she accused you (correctly) of knowing as much about your powers as she did, and told you not to risk it.

While you’re spacing out over her comments, she stands and smoothes out the new wrinkles in her spotless white pencil skirt. It’s paired with a matching white blazer, a low-cut dark blue blouse and white stiletto heels; it’s far too early in the day for a date, so she must have a business meeting of some kind. You think she works high up in overseas branches of an American advertising firm, but she’s never actually told you. Maybe she didn’t want you to show up at her work looking for her.

She pauses briefly beside you. For a moment, you wonder if she’ll pat your head like she used to when you were small and she had to go to work, back before night terrors were anything other than ‘perfectly normal for a child that age’. Back when there was still hope that you’d grow out of it.

You wish she would. You miss it.

The moment passes. With her gaze focused on something beyond you, she walks past, hands held stiffly at her sides, and you bitterly wonder why you bothered hoping for anything different.


End file.
